Seasons: Winter
by chelsie fan
Summary: The last installment in my Seasons series of fics. Set at Christmastime in 1930. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes consider retirement and a certain little cottage. Illustration by the lovely brenna-louise! Some S5 spoilers and speculation.


**A/N This story is for brenna-louise, who has so generously given of her time and talent to illustrate this series of fics for me. She's painted the picture for this story (and for many of my other stories). If you can't see the thumbnail cover image very well here, please check it out on my tumblr page. Her work is sensational, she's a darling, and it's been a privilege to collaborate with her. Please drop her a line here or on tumblr. Thank you, brenna-loiuse, for making this little series something special! The stories wouldn't be half as good without the accompanying artwork.**

**Thank you to everyone who has followed and reviewed. I appreciate your support more than my words can convey. Please leave one last review if you can afford a minute or two.**

**Oh, and there are some minor S5 spoilers, along with some pure conjecture and speculation (highly colored by what I would **_**like**_** to see happen).**

Winter

December, 1930

It was late Christmas night. The family had all been sorted and put to sleep, and the last, straggling staff members had finally gone off to bed, too. It had been the first time since the Dowager's passing that the Abbey had seen such activity, and the commotion had taken its toll on everyone.

Lord and Lady Grantham were entertaining houseguests. Lady Mary, Master George, Mr. Napier, and the little ones had come to visit. Lady Edith had brought Miss Marigold from London for the holiday. And even Mr. Branson had been persuaded to make the trip from America with Miss Sybbie. Mrs. Clarkson – the former Mrs. Crawley – and Dr. Clarkson had spent the day at the Abbey and then returned to their home in the village.

With Lord and Lady Grantham living alone in the house now, entertaining less, and traveling more, the staff had been greatly reduced. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, of course, still ran the house as smoothly as ever, but most of the rest of the staff had gone. Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter had married, gone off to run a public house, and were doing very well. Anna and Mr. Bates also had left and bought a hotel; the little seaside inn was quite successful, and it was the perfect place to raise their children. Mrs. Patmore had retired, married Mr. Mason, and was living quite happily with him at his farm. Daisy stayed on, taking over as cook and settling smoothly and capably into the position for which Mrs. Patmore had spent years grooming her. Mr. Barrow remained as under-butler and had actually become tolerable and – to nearly everyone's surprise – responsible and trustworthy. There were, of course, several other new staff members, but the total number of servants was only half what it had been when the Abbey had more upstairs residents and bustled with activity.

After a long day of festivities, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes were the only two remaining downstairs – or awake at all, for that matter. They sat in her sitting room, happy to be able finally to spend some time alone together after such a busy day. It was only after everyone else had gone to sleep that they were finally able to exchange the gifts they'd bought for each other.

They had always exchanged small tokens on Christmas, ever since her promotion to housekeeper. The presents had started out as little things: a new pen, some stationery, a box or bag of sweets, a modest bottle of wine. But over the years, their gifts had become more personal; a first edition of a favorite book, a handbag for her, a wallet for him, a pair of gloves, a scarf. In recent years, their exchanges had become _very_ intimate: a bottle of after-shave or perfume, a brooch, a decorative hair clip, a new watch fob. But no previous gifts could come close to _this year's_ exchange.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. I'm touched," said Mr. Carson as he opened his gift. First, he held up the tie, considering it thoughtfully, and then he inspected the cufflinks and collar studs just as appreciatively. "I shall wear them to services this Sunday – and _every_ Sunday. They're very smart. You've always had excellent taste."

"I should like to think so. I've chosen to spend my time with _you_, haven't I?" she responded coquettishly.

"You flatter me," he returned, blushing but smiling.

"I hope you might have occasion to wear them more often than just once a week to church. Perhaps you'll be able to spend more time away from the house now," suggested Mrs. Hughes hopefully.

"Perhaps I will. As a matter of fact, I do hope to. Mrs. Hughes, I have a gift for you, too, but if you'll indulge me, my giving it to you will require a short walk outside. Would you mind terribly? I know it's cold and snowy, late and dark, but you can hold onto me. I promise to keep you safe and warm."

"I'm sure you will," said Mrs. Hughes, feeling warm already. "I wouldn't mind at all."

He stood and offered his hand to help her up. "Shall we?"

Moments later, bundled in coats, scarves, and gloves, they walked arm-in-arm along the snow-covered, moonlit lane between the house and the village. The cold gave them an excuse to walk more closely and hold more tightly. After a few minutes, Mr. Carson brought them to a halt underneath the branches of a tree, providing shelter from the lightly falling snow. They stood amidst a row of cottages, directly in front of one in particular. It was _their_ cottage, the one they'd bought together six years earlier – as a _rental_ property, a _business_ investment; since then, they'd been leasing it out and sharing the income, hoping to save a tidy sum for retirement. It was a lovely little place whose best qualities reflected those of its owners; sturdy, yet charming; solid, but inviting; traditional-looking on the outside, with recent renovations and modern conveniences on the inside. There had been no explicit talk of their plans for leaving service or of their living arrangements thereafter, but there was perhaps an implicit expectation that they might retire there together someday.

"It's our cottage, but why are we here, Mr. Carson?" asked Mrs. Hughes.

"As you know, Mr. Dunlop's lease expires in March, and he doesn't wish to renew it," stated Mr. Carson.

"Yes, I know," she confirmed. "He plans to move in with his sister. And we've already written the advertisement seeking a new tenant – or tenants."

"Perhaps we should hold off on placing that advertisement," he suggested. "I think I might already know the perfect occupants."

"Oh? _Occupants_, plural? So it's a family then?"

"An older couple, actually. They'll be retired and married by March, I hope."

He pulled off his gloves, folded them, and placed them in his coat pocket. Then he reached out, grasped one of her wrists, and slowly, gently tugged the glove off her hand. He repeated the process with her with her other hand and tucked her gloves into his pocket with his own. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a small box. He opened it to reveal a plain gold band with a simple pattern etched along the edges.

Her eyes grew wide and then filled with tears. Her mouth dropped open and then broke into a joyous smile. She waited for him to speak.

He made a valiant effort, but stumbled along at first. "Mrs. Hughes, I ... _Elsie_, will you ... I wonder ... I hope ... I want ... " He closed his eyes and inhaled the cold night air. His warm breath formed a tiny cloud between them when he exhaled. When he opened his eyes and continued, his declaration and request were simple and straightforward. "You make me very happy, and I want to be with you always. I love you. Marry me."

"Yes." Her acceptance was as direct and heartfelt as his proposal.

He removed the ring from its box and slid the box back into his pocket. Then he placed the ring on her finger and kissed her hand tenderly.

"Happy Christmas, Elsie. I hope you like it."

"Happy Christmas, Charles. Thank you. I love it, and I love _you_."

She rested one hand on his chest, raised the other to stroke his face, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. They stood, holding hands, touching foreheads, and smiling blissfully at each other. Their gloves remained stowed in Mr. Carson's pocket as they walked back to the house with her left hand tucked snugly in his right, neither minding the cold, both desperate to feel this new, tangible symbol of their love.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Mr. and Mrs. Carson enjoyed a long, happy retirement together. While it was true that they married very late in life, their love made up for any lost time. They had spent many years together before their marriage, developing a true, deep devotion to each other. While that commitment to each other had not been acknowledged verbally or expressed physically, it had been nevertheless satisfying in its own right, because it had served as the basis for what was to come. Their love grew and blossomed rapidly and fully in their later years, because that love had such strong roots. They were not inclined to waste a single minute lamenting what they had _not_ been given, but were wise enough instead to make the most of what they _had_ been given. And what they _had_ been given made them very, _very_ happy.


End file.
